A Lesson in Economics
by Verity Strange
Summary: What were they thinking, anyway? Could they keep it up forever? Because, you know, eventually they would run out of supplies. After all, there are only so many men in London... Set in an alternate universe, creepy as that sounds.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I admit, I have reluctantly fallen in love with the tale of Sweeney Todd. Trust me, I didn't want to, but it has taken me by surprise. Darn that Johnny Depp. And Helena Bonham Carter. And Tim Burton. And Angela Lansbury. (Well, I think she deserves credit).

Some things to keep in mind: this is an alternate universe fiction. Like, WAY alternate universe. Not even _this_ universe-Alternate-Universe.

I am setting it in the 1840s. Why? Because I feel like it. That's why.

Also, this chapter may feel rather slow. It is a set-up chapter. I hope it is at least interesting, in a rather sick and twisted math-geek way.

And now, without further ado, I present to you:

A Lesson in Economics

_(sounds thrilling, doesn't it?)_

* * *

Chapter One: What A Bloody Wonder

During the 19th century, many Londoners supported a laissez-faire, or free market, economy. Entrepreneurs could run businesses and institutions with minimal government intervention. Shops flourished under mixtures of market economy (items bought and sold with money) and bartering (or trade). This was a popular practice, but never institutionalized as a permanent fixture.

More common was capitalism, and the relationship between supply and demand. As much as the customer needed, the higher the price could be raised. Similarly, as much as the business supplied, the higher the price could be raised. The key was to find a delicate balance between having too much and too little, too high prices and too low, too few customers and too many.

This, of course, never occurred to Mrs. Nellie Lovett. She understood enough economics to know that the more good pies she had, the more good customers she would have. She paid meticulous attention to demand. Unfortunately, she had underestimated her own supply.

* * *

These were dark times in London, Mr. Todd thought. He sat in his barber's chair, contemplating the current situation. Never could he have anticipated this result: no customers. Indeed, he had anticipated very little regarding his life after killing the Judge.

The streets outside London were silent. No laborers hurried from home to job, or job to home. No upper or middle-class gentlemen strutted the streets in their finery. Only a few widows and shopkeepers gloomily swept the dusty snow off their steps.

It had been one year to the day, Mr. Todd realized, since he had returned from Australia. And how much he had accomplished since then!

When he killed Judge Turpin and Beadle Bamford, his life felt complete. To make a "happy" ending happier, he found his Johanna, and she was happily married to Anthony in a town far away from London. It was best that way, reasoned Mr. Todd. The farther she was from her nightmares (and his), the better.

But the murderous barber did not give up there.

Mr. Todd had woken the morning after completing his mission feeling elated. He had risen, phoenix-like, from the pool of blood on his floor and looked into the mirror. He saw the white streak, the dark eyes, the pale skin, the rusty blood, all thrown into contrast and torn by the deep split in the glass. He smiled slightly, and picked up the towel lying on the table. Quietly and efficiently (as always), he set about his next task: tidying the barbershop.

Every day, it was the same: he rose, full of joy, and continued his work as the murderous barber. Now, it was not so much for a need-to-cleanse-the-world-of-filth as it was out of sheer habit. He greeted the customer, shaved the face, slit the throat, and pressed the lever. Simple as pie, quite nearly.

That had been six months ago, and business had slowed considerably since then. Most of the men coming for a shave were higher class, the wealthy employers. There had already been a very few of them, and they were gone. There was the occasional sailor (a salty lot, according to Mrs. Lovett) or traveling salesman. Mr. Todd wondered where all the other men were—the clerks, the factory-workers, the sweeps, and the like. True, they probably could not afford a shave, but they did not even wander the streets nowadays.

Of course, Mr. Todd did not understand capitalism. The wealthy men whom he had so charitably sent to their maker employed the general populace of London. When the men who owned businesses and companies died, their companies either moved or died with them. The men under their control, the labor class, moved with the companies. They had dispersed all over England, in the country or the more distant cities.

All great men have great women behind them, and these women were quite happily endowed with their inheritances. The wealthy men left wealthier widows, who maintained a certain amount of self-sufficiency. They had maids, and could send out for food. There were still imported goods at their command. There were Swiss bank accounts with high-interest rates, and offshore taxes. Finally, these widows had each others' company—every society lady belongs to a society.

What did they not have? Men.

When supply is down, demand rises. At times when the supply is devastatingly low, economic chaos might erupt. Depressions could arise in the wink of an eye.

Mr. Todd did not realize this all at once, but he became quite aware of one vital fact. As he strode to the window and pulled back the curtain, he gazed objectively out at the near-empty street and held one thought in his mind: he was the only man left in London.

* * *

All right, still awake? smiles lovingly at snoring audience Good, good...

Will update soon. Unless, of course, I don't. The next chapter will be Mrs. Lovett-centric.Unless, of course, it is not.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Ah, here it is: the second chapter. Thanks to andaere, ilex-ferox, and ReenaBugs for reviewing... you guys are pretty cool... :)

Wait a second, why am I writing this note again? Oh, yeah.

I forgot to make it painstakingly clear in the previous chapter a) how shaky I am at facts and b) the background of this story. To preserve any dignity I may still retain, let's focus on b). 

Imagine that everything had gone just as planned, that night in the bakehouse. Mr. Todd had killed the judge, as well as the Beadle. Mrs. Lovett got to keep Toby, and Mr. Todd got to see Johanna. Nobody saw the beggar woman, which is just as well. 

But what comes after their "happily-ever-after?" Can they have one? How could they imagine having one? Hm. Well, this is my satire (or parody, since it seems this website lacks a category for "satire").

Ahem, enough of my rambling! On with the story.

* * *

_Chapter Two: High-Born and Low_

Even if supply had run devastatingly low, demand remained. Mrs. Lovett became keenly aware of that fact.

She stood, covered in flour, in her messy kitchen. Today was Sunday: crust day. She generally spent this day making dough to last most of the week, as most prospective customers occupied themselves by repenting for their sins. How ironic, she thought with a wry smile, that they were about to commit more just by coming here for lunch or tea. She felt quite sure that cannibalism counted as a mortal sin. Gluttony did not even start to cover it.

Today, though, she could not make any piecrusts. No, she amended, that was not right—she _could_ make piecrusts, but it would not be very sensible for two reasons. Firstly, she had very few customers. Secondly, she had no meat.

The clouded windows masked the street outside, but she could see a familiar figure hobbling down Fleet Street. Her tangled, matted hair hid her face, but Lucy Barker still presented an issue of recognition. Stupid woman, thought Mrs. Lovett. How many times must she shoo away the old beggar?

Mrs. Lovett hurried to the door, broom in hand. "Out, you!" she cried. The beggar paused and stared at her, perplexed. "Alms?" she asked, holding out her hand. Mrs. Lovett sighed, and placed a penny in the woman's dirty palm. "Stay away from this place, you," She said softly. She had not called her Lucy since the arsenic poisoning—and why should she? The creature left, Mrs. Lovett reasoned, was not Lucy Barker. Besides, what sort of greedy beast would poison herself and leave her poor child undefended?

The same sort, she realized, that would lie to a broken man for her own self-gain.

She watched the beggar woman totter away. Her stomach felt hard and cold with the peculiar sickness of guilt. She gave one last glance at the wronged woman, and turned inside the shop.

Out of boredom, she thought to wander down to the oven. She opened the huge, tomblike door to the bake house and strode down the stairs. The oven crouched: empty, cold, and slightly dusty.

Mrs. Lovett shivered. She felt cold in that vacant bake house. She had long since scrubbed the bloodstains away, and now she could only smell mildew and a faint sewer stench. She decided, since she felt so cold, to light a fire and heat the house.

As she tossed the wood into the great oven, she wondered what she could do. A year ago to the day, she had been in a similar position: a woman alone, with limited wind. She had bought only the cheapest meat, the mealiest flour, all in an attempt to increase supply. Surely, if supply were high, demand would follow. Unfortunately, she had discounted quality over quantity.

Then, Mr. Bar—Todd had come home, and everything improved. She had a steady supply of high-quality meat (only the finest for London's masses) and a trusted clientele. But nothing gold shall stay. A few weeks ago, as she said, it had all gone "pear-shaped."

Mr. Todd's customers had dwindled slowly, as had her own. She put it off for some time, but finally resolved herself to visit the butcher. She requested pork, as it had the nearest consistency to her previous selection. The butcher gave her as much as she could afford (about two week's profit, for her) and she set off with a tidy little supply.

That was one month ago. Her icebox lay bare in the cold little outer-room. She had no customers, and nothing to feed them with, anyway--save for a few dusty pies that would serve as her, Toby's, and Mr. Todd's dinner. She had returned to the butcher the day before, only to find it closed up tight—Mr. Todd, she recalled now, had dispatched the man ten days previously. He had been (in an ironic twist of fate) the last piece _she_ had butchered. It was oddly fitting, for such a man to go in such a way. Mrs. Lovett thought of poor Albert. She could stand a man of his frame to walk in for a shave right now.

The fire now roared pleasantly in the oven, but Mrs. Lovett still felt cold. She knew what she had to do. It was for Mr. Todd's survival, for Toby's survival, and for her own. If Mrs. Lovett was anything, she was a survivor.

Mrs. Lovett trudged up both flights of stairs. She had to visit Mr. Todd.

* * *

"So," he said, hardly looking at her. "You want to move to the seaside."

Mrs. Lovett stared. She had just spent ten minutes beating around the bush, slipping sly hints about how happy she was, about how they had enough money now—really, quite an excess—and what with times looking to be hard and all, they might as well get out of here. She had mentioned the sea several times. Seventeen, actually.

"Well," she started again, hands on her hips. "It does seem t'be the smar' thing t'do, dunnit? The on'y thing t'do, really."

Mr. Todd nodded, slowly contemplating his razor. He had his back to her, silhouetted by the transcendent window. Mrs. Lovett watched him carefully, as she slowly approached. Her slim hands, worn by hard work and dry flour, snaked around his shoulders. He did not cringe, as usual. He did not even seem angry—in fact, he had seemed more complacent since the Judge was gone. As long as he did not meet that beggar woman, by chance…

"Mrs. Lovett," he said at last, setting the razor on the table. "What a charming notion. Eminently practical and also quite appropriate, Mrs. Lovett." 

She had heard him say as much before. Good things came afterwards, but who knew how long it would last? She felt a bit suspicious. Her fears vanished, however, when Mr. Todd placed his hands on her waist. Spinning around the barbershop, her red curls whirling around her face, she felt like the young girl besotted with Benjamin Barker, and not the thirty-two-year-old widow… still besotted with Benjamin Barker. Finally, she would have all she ever wanted.

Half an hour later, she trudged down the stairs. A little smile danced around her mouth, warm on her often-cold face. She had to go wake Toby, to tell him of the good news. Before the month was out, the three of them would pack their belongings. She would sell the pie shop and the apartment above it. Her numerous dreams, all resurrected by the creation of Sweeney Todd, would soon come to fruition. Finally, they would go to the seaside. 

Ah, but she saw one little problem! The unthinkable, in fact.

She had a customer.

* * *

_Survey:_ should this magically become a Sweenett, of sorts? Or not? I could go either way. If you do not want romance to become part of the story at all, just let me know.

Until next time, thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: All right, so I did not plan on updating at first. I like to make people wait... or I just have to force myself to write. Er, anyway, the reasing I _did_ decide to update: today is Stephen Sondheim's birthday! As such, this chapter is dedicated to him: the genius who came up with the score to the Demon Barber.

On a similar note, it is also Andrew Lloyd Weber's birthday! Two pretty cool guys (in oddly related fields) on the same day.

* * *

_Chapter Three: A Most Delectable Thing_

"Can I 'elp ye, madam?" Mrs. Lovett asked. A woman, perhaps a bit older and heavier than Mrs. Lovett, stood in front of the shop counter, looking distastefully at the grubby rug. "Yes, indeed," she murmured, a little absentmindedly.

Mrs. Lovett shrugged, and strode to the cupboard. She knew that the pies left were intended for their dinner, but she could charge a little extra and perhaps treat the family out for a meal. "Might I tempt ye with a pie, love?" Mrs. Lovett asked, waving one of their precious resources at the woman.

The woman sat at the table, dolefully tracing patterns with her gloved hand. "Yes, I suppose so," she said. Her flippant manner perturbed Mrs. Lovett. With a grimace, the baker placed the pie in the small oven. The kitchen oven was connected directly to the downstairs oven—all she had to do was flick a lever and the heat would be redirected to the kitchen. This was another ingenious mechanization of the indefatigable Mr. Todd.

Mrs. Lovett flicked her hair out of her eyes and started scrubbing the counter. "And 'ow've ye been, love?" she inquired, with a glance towards her sole customer.

The woman gave a little shrug and pulled her gloves off. Mrs. Lovett noticed that the woman had a rather peculiar marking around her ring finger on her left hand. "I have been better, I suppose," the woman drawled. "Since my husband left, things have been rather quiet."

"Your 'usband?" Mrs. Lovett asked. She tried to keep the frightened tone out of her voice. The grip on her towel tightened, and she began to grope for her meat cleaver, just in case this woman—widow—knew _too_ much.

"Yes," the woman intoned. She seemed to be under the impression that Mrs. Lovett was a simpleton. "It was tragic, really," she sniffed. "My dear Mr. Woodward, he had set off to a special trial at the Central Criminal Court—a lawyer, of course—and never came back. He had never even arrived, apparently." Mrs. Woodward took out a handkerchief and dabbed her heavily lined eyes.

"Oh, you poor thing," Mrs. Lovett dryly murmured. Her derision did not allay her distrust, but she felt a bit more at ease. Foolish woman! That Mrs. Woodward was on a mission, and she would not find her aims here.

Mrs. Woodward sniffed, and recovered quickly. "Ah, well, the past is the past. Now, how about that meat pie?" She smirked.

Mrs. Lovett pulled out a plate and placed the warm pie on it. "'Ere ye are. Fresh outta the oven, love." She placed the dish on the table.

"Mm. Thank you, Mrs. Lovett," Mrs. Woodward said. The wealthy woman began to tuck in.

"That'll be four pence," said Mrs. Lovett. Too bad the woman she addressed was otherwise occupied. Mrs. Lovett hovered for a moment, then shrugged and returned to her cleaning.

* * *

Mr. Todd looked once more out the window, and then decided to box away his razors for the day. Nobody would come, and there would be little purpose in haunting the barbershop for now. He felt a small pang, putting away his razors so early. It seemed traitorous, as if he did not appreciate what he had. He knew what it meant to not have anything.

As he shut the lid and closed the drawer, Mr. Todd wondered what Johanna was doing right now. She and Anthony had tucked away safely to the seaside town of Plymouth. The most recent letter said that Anthony would soon embark on a two-year voyage with a merchant ship. Certainly, nothing could be going wrong for her.

He wondered if he would visit her, now that they were escaping to the sea. Of course, he hoped so. His agreeing to Mrs. Lovett's "idea" had been mostly so he could visit dear Johanna. Finally, he could spend some quality time with his daughter, unhindered by foolish, naïve Anthony Hope. There would be, Mr. Todd realized, only one problem: he would still have Mrs. Lovett and that boy.

Nevertheless, they would have each other. Mr. Todd decided that they could not get in his path _too_ much. They did not even have to live near each other, now; they could just divvy up the money and go their separate ways. This seemed like a good idea, but Mr. Todd snorted aloud when he realized one thing: no way in hell would Mrs. Lovett let him get away from her a _second_ time.

His heavy footsteps marked his powerful gait as he strode down the stairs. He thought to get a book, perhaps a bit of gin, before settling down for the evening in his shop. He reached the door and pulled it open, only to meet a horrifying sight.

A woman sat at a table in the pie shop. She had apparently been ferociously devouring her pie only moments before, as traces of savory meat still clung to her upper lip. She was well-dressed, and perhaps a little on the podgy side. Buxom, you might say, as Mr. Todd gazed at her ample bosom. Indeed, she had made it rather difficult not to notice. She hurriedly wiped her mouth and rose with the grace only a high-society dame could muster.

"Ah!" she cried. "You must be the infamous Mr. Todd."

Mr. Todd felt his blood run colder than usual. He began to wish he had not left his razors upstairs. However, his fears were dissuaded in a moment.

"Home of the closest shaves in London, no?" she smiled, curtseying deeply. She leaned a bit far forward, giving yet another spectacular view of the region supported by her corset. "I have heard much about you, sir."

"Your compliments flatter me, madam," he said, deciding to turn on that wry charm. He turned to Mrs. Lovett, who was agape while watching the scene. "Whom might I have the delectable pleasure of addressing?"

"Trust me, sir," cut in the woman, "the delectable pleasure is all mine." She gave a little glance towards the pie on the table, licking her lips. Abruptly, she broke her reverie and turned back to Mr. Todd. "I am Mrs. Isabella Woodward, widow of the _late_ Sir Michael Woodward." She put particular emphasis upon the word _late_. Mr. Todd felt rather buttonholed.

"But of course!" he exclaimed, with a small bow. "Who could forget your indefatigable husband? His talent is still spoken of with reverence." Behind him, Mr. Todd felt quite sure he heard Mrs. Lovett snort. It may have been a sneeze, though.

"Right," said Mrs. Woodward, eager to change the subject. "Well, it has been a pleasure to acquaint myself with you, Mr. Todd. I shall look forward to our meeting again." She gave a dimpled smile, another low curtsey, and a shilling to the baker. After another simpering glance at the barber, she flounced out the door and down the street.

"What in heaven's name was that all about?" asked Mr. Todd, feeling rather alarmed.

"A whole shillin'—and just for a pie!" exclaimed Mrs. Lovett, waving the silver piece in the air. "Tha's four times wha' I usually charge, an' three what I was intendin' to charge 'er!" She spun around the room, secretly hoping that Mr. Todd would join in her dance.

When she found herself unaccompanied, she turned back to the barber. He had sat on a stool, cradling his head in his hands.

"What are we to do?" he moaned. Mrs. Lovett slowly approached, and rested a soothing hand on his head.

"There, there, now, Mr. T," she cooed. "We's gonna get along just fine, eh? She's just one sad ol' widow, an' that ain't goin' to stand in our way, right, dearie?"

Mr. Todd considered the irony of that statement, and glared at Mrs. Lovett. She met his gaze and laughed. "All righ', but let's say that all the ladies in London 'ave, all of a sudden, magically, found ou' tha' you're the only fella left. They can't all just pile in 'ere, now, can they?"

"Determination, thy name is woman," quipped Mr. Todd woefully. Mrs. Lovett just shook her head.

"Y'know, Mr. T, you do take things a li'le _too_ hard, don't ye think?" she sighed, wiping her hands on her apron.

* * *

And now, you see the first of this rather dreadful chaos Mr. T and Mrs. Lovett have caused. Or rather, that I have caused. But these two can be very overtaking, you see. :)


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Okay, chapter four. I can do this, I can totally do this...

Warning! There's a little bit of Sweenett in this. Let me know if it totally fails. It's nothing overt--after all, I try to keep this as "real" as possible.

Okay, on with the tale!

* * *

_Chapter Four: Not While I'm Around_

Around these parts of London, the boys on the street were much tougher. They had to be—this was the golden age of dirty London. Charles Dickens wrote of poor and dying orphans, swayed by scoundrels into lives of infamy. Children who had nothing ran to workhouses, and the lucky ones took to the streets. They were like rats, these young people—struggling to survive, to carve their names in stone, even if it meant an eventual downfall.

As such, a lad like Toby could hold his drink. He had often proved as much to an impressed Mrs. Lovett, tossing back half a bottle of gin in one evening. The alcohol soothed him, bringing his young mind back to evenings spent in the cold workhouse, surrounded by the other boys, in a brief moment of peace…

Ah! But the poor boy had not the faintest idea what the alcohol would do to him, eventually. He did not know that brain could molder in its skull, his liver scar and die, his kidneys fail…

Toby did not care about any of this, at the moment. He had slumped across the sofa, notorious gin in hand, in front of a toasty fire. His mind had entered a blissful state, filled with loving mothers, easy hours, and scrumptious pies. Of course, Toby was not so naïve when conscious—a boy can dream, though, can he not?

He snapped out of his idyllic reverie with the entry of one person alone. The one man who made young Toby's paradise feel unsafe trudged into the room, searching for the "damned bottle of gin, God knows I need it." The glass jug was from Toby's grasped untimely ripped (to paraphrase Shakespeare). Copious gulping noises followed.

"'Ey, you—" cried an indignant Toby. A glower silenced him, before it vanished again behind the gin. Toby sighed, and rose from his invaded sanctuary.

In the kitchen, Toby found his second-favorite thing about his new home—Mrs. Lovett. Well, perhaps "second-favorite" was not entirely accurate. Mrs. Lovett certainly was a wonder—a kinder, more charitable soul did not live in all of London. Toby flashed a grin at her, and perched on a stool by the counter.

"Anythin' I can do for you, ma'am?" he asked, tracing a pattern in the flour splashed across the counter. Mrs. Lovett snapped his hand with her towel and wiped away the flour.

"Actually, there is," she said, slipping here hand into her apron pocket. She withdrew six pence, and pressed the coins into Toby's hand.

"There you are," she said. "Now, be a dear, an' run around to th' sandwich shop, m'kay?"

Toby nodded, pocketing the money. "Anythin' special you want me t' pick up, ma'am?"

Mrs. Lovett shook her head. "Nah, dearie, just three sandwiches." She glanced down at her thin boy. "Meat, if they's got any."

Toby pocketed the change, and ran for the door.

* * *

Mr. Todd sat on the chair in the parlor. He gazed at the now-empty bottle, how the flames licked each bend, reflecting his eyes and the room. His vision stretched and curved, a kaleidoscope of perception, leaving only cold thoughts and humorless despair to inhabit his mind.

Obviously, the man was drunk.

He barely even heard the firm footstep behind him. He barely even felt the gin bottle taken from his hand. But he did notice these things enough to glance up at the unassailable woman standing beside him, hands on her hips.

"An' what d'ye think yer doin', Mr. T?" she sighed. He just shook his head, hardly hearing her. "Now, that's 'ardly an answer, innit?" she chuckled. She couldn't be severe with him. She was mentally incapable of it.

Her hand found its way to his face, as it often did. She liked his eyes, how they were such a soft brown. Even when filled with despair, or anger, or a void (like right now), she felt a small thrill. She sat, would-be casual, on the arm to the chair, gently stroking his hair and looking at his eyes.

Mr. Todd's gaze had left Mrs. Lovett. He knew perfectly well what would happen next: she would embark on some ill-conceived plan to seduce him, he would decline repeatedly, and she would either yell at him or burst into tears. Perhaps both.

She was nice enough, he knew that, and she was invaluable in helping him. He did feel a bit of thanks towards her—dispatching the Judge had done that to him. He almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

It would be so much easier if she were Lucy, or more like Lucy. He could learn to love her (_love her? But he could only love Lucy…beautiful and pale…_) if she were.

But Lucy never would have suggested chopping up customers to bake into pies. Lucy never would have willingly skinned dozens—hundreds, he realized—of men and ground them into mush. Lucy certainly would not have enticed her tenant multiple times on a funny whim. Or a serious feeling, for the matter. Mr. Todd knew that he was dealing with more than a little crush.

He caught her hand as she reached to stroke his hair, and heard her gasp. He almost grinned at her shock, until he caught sight of her hand. It was nothing much to look at—just a hand, small and pale in his. If it weren't for the hard work marking the knuckles, he could have almost—_almost_—mistaken it for Lucy's.

"And are you beautiful and pale, but look too much like her?" he murmured under his breath, still gazing at the hand.

"Wha's that, Mr. T?" asked Mrs. Lovett. She wanted to pull her hand away…

"Nothing, my pet," he growled. He took her hand and pressed a kiss to it, imagining…

They sat like that for a little while, just with her hand to his lips. Then, a jingling noise broke the quiescence.

* * *

Toby dashed down the street. The misty twilight warned that night would soon be upon London. Toby knew what dangers lurked in the night.

Mrs. Garcia's Sandwich Shoppe (an odd blend of culture, Toby thought, which reminded him briefly of his previous employer) held notoriety as the best (if only) sandwich shop in Bell Yard. It was not, of course, a very prestigious or coveted title—but it was one. Toby glanced in the hazy windows to make sure Mrs. Garcia was in, and opened the door.

"Good evening, Mrs. Garcia," Toby said politely. He approached the counter and glanced at the few sandwiches she had.

"Ah, good evening, sir," she said in her heavy accent. Toby suspected that hers was every bit as real as Pirelli's.

"I'll take three of the roast beef ones, if you please," Toby said, taking the coins out of his pocket. He looked at Mrs. Garcia, and realized there was something vaguely familiar about her.

"That'll be a shilling,_ mi querido_," she said with a derisive glance at the change. Toby paled.

"A shilling! When did you raise the price?" he asked.

Mrs. Garcia pressed her lips together. "When my husband left and I had no extra money," she said coldly. Toby nodded, blushing with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he murmured. "Er—I suppose three cheese sandwiches, please."

Toby had forgotten Mr. Garcia had disappeared. The Spaniard had been a merchant, selling pricy dresses and fans. Toby vaguely recalled the man trying to sell "genuine Spanish leather" shoes to Mr. Todd. Last Toby saw of _Señor_ Garcia, he had gone up for a shave…

Toby shook the silly thought out of his head. _Señor_ Garcia, as most believed, had probably just run off with one of his frequent customers. The wealthy women, it seemed, had a taste for the more exotic.

Mrs. Garcia handed him the sandwiches. For the first time, Toby noticed how tired the woman looked. Her dark, handsome eyes were worn from tears and rubbing, and her lovely face seemed prematurely aged.

"Thank ye, ma'am," he said. "Er—if you don't mind me askin', are y'all righ'?"

She suppressed a smile at the young boy. "Ah, _m'ijo_, today is my last day in London," she whispered. "Tomorrow, I leave for my family in Marbella. Thank you for asking."

Toby nodded, and wished her good night. As he walked away from the shop, he finally could place the familiarity. She reminded him of Mrs. Lovett.

* * *

Mr. Todd dropped Mrs. Lovett's hand. "That your bell, or mine?" he asked hesitantly.

Mrs. Lovett sat very still. "Mr. T, I—I think it's yours," she said with a bit of excitement.

Exhilaration filled Mr. Todd. He leapt from his seat and dashed through the pie shop, out the door, and up the stairs. A very startled-looking sailor greeted him.

"GoodeveningmygoodsirandcanItreatyoutoashave?" Mr. Todd gasped. The sailor answered, "Aye, and be quick abou' it, righ'?"

"Of course," Mr. Todd answered. He had regained his breath a little, and unlocked the door. It creaked open.

The Welshman (or so Mr. Todd judged, by his accent) sat in the barber's chair. Mr. Todd lathered his face, and gently began shaving. "And where do you hail from, Mr.—"

"—Rhys," the man supplied with a smile. "An' me 'ouse's in Newport, but me 'ome's the sea."

Mr. Todd nodded. He knew what it meant to live where you wanted, love whom you wanted, put your heart completely into—

"Ah," said Mr. Rhys, breaking the barber's stream of consciousness. "Not entirely true. Now wi' me wife, an' little one, I guess ye could say me 'eart's in Newport, too. I'm to set out today an' arrive back tomorrow."

Mr. Todd froze. He had just raised the razor that fraction of an inch, enough to draw back and strike. But wait…

"A family?" he said softly.

"Aye," Mr. Rhys said dreamily. "Me little Dylan, and me wife, Lucy."

That was it. Mr. Todd gave the last stroke, and looked into the man's eyes.

For a long time, he could not say anything. He had suddenly, amazingly, at his age, grown a thousand years older, grown up. That one simple word had changed everything.

"You go home to your wife now, sir," Mr. Todd whispered. Suddenly, he was all business. "Farewell, Mr. Rhys, and smooth seas."

The very alarmed Mr. Rhys stood up. "Thank ye, sir," he said, and placed two pence on the vanity.

As he hurried towards the door, he stopped. "Ah, Mr. Todd?" he said hesitantly. The barber looked up from his seat, exhausted. "Ye 'ave a couple lady friends, so it seems."

* * *

All right, that wasn't too bad, was it? No...

Fun fact! The reason Mrs. Garcia is Spanish is because when sandwiches were popularized, it was by the English 4th Earl of Sandwich. However, they really took off in Spain. It took a little longer for them to pick up in England, where they were originated as trenchers.

Also: my experience with the Welsh is a little limited. I re-read his dialogue, and realized that it looks practically identical to Mrs. Lovett's. In light of that, try to picture a Welsh accent. :)

That's all, folks!


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: I must say, I love getting reviews! There's some sort of secret pleasure, however, in those readers who add this to their story alerts, but don't review. I'm not sure why I like it, but I do.

That is to say, I still like reviews. So, you know what, just don't listen to my mad rambling.

* * *

_Chapter Five: Poor Thing_

Mrs. Lovett felt more thrilled than she had in a while. It seemed like forever since the barber and the baker had had any proper business. However, by some miracle, a customer had appeared; he would, unbeknownst to him, bring even more.

She grasped her meat cleaver; any minute now, their fresh supplies would arrive…

Any minute now…

Distantly, she heard footsteps on the stairs and the jingle of the bell, accompanied by more footsteps. Poor, confused Mrs. Lovett dashed up the stairs and stuck her head out the front door.

A clean-shaven sailor tipped his hat to her, and proceeded to walk down Fleet Street.

If Mrs. Lovett had her druthers (or didn't, depending on one's point of view), she would have dashed down the road and struck down the sailor where he stood, silly fool, and dragged him back to her bake house. Of course, she did not—she suspected that murder was not her cup of tea. Nevertheless, her curiosity overcame her fury, and she turned towards the tonsorial parlor.

What had inspired Mr. T to let this customer go? As far as Mrs. Lovett knew (not very far, she realized) the barber only rarely let the odd customer go on every other off day when he felt so inspired. Not very often, even with the great number of customers they had once received.

But still! Even just one to go, when business was so slow and there were no men around, could truly hurt their…understanding. Mrs. Lovett sighed, hiked up her skirts, and trudged up the stairs.

* * *

"Can I help you, ladies?" Mr. Todd inquired as Mr. Rhys crept out the door. The two well-dressed women entered, looking about the small barbershop with contemptuous expressions. The rude looks slipped off their faces soon, however, only to reveal mugs of simpering adoration.

"Good afternoon," said one woman, with a curtsey. She gestured to herself and her friend. "May I introduce myself, Evelyn Bates, and my companion, Jeanne Greely?"

"We, as members of the J. Rutherford Ladies' Society, courteously invite you to a ball, held at Rutherford Hall this evening," said Mrs. Greely.

"It's for the benefit of Mrs. Isabella Woodward. Perhaps you met her earlier today?" added Mrs. Bates, a little too hurriedly.

Mr. Todd raised his eyebrows. This appeared to be a very well-rehearsed scene—the women knew exactly what to say. And how had they known about Mrs. Woodward?

"That sounds quite acceptable, my dears," he said, thinking as quickly as his inebriated brain would allow. "But where, might I ask, are your escorts?"

Obviously, these two had not seen this coming. Mrs. Greely stammered, "Ah—well, er, you see—I"

"—don't need escorts," mumbled Mrs. Bates. "It's not—in the tradition of the Society—"

Mr. Todd considered rolling his eyes, and decided against it. Their excuse was incredibly weak. He knew a certain woman who could have thought of a better one.

Speak of the devil—as Mr. Todd blindly groped for some answer to their question (short of murdering them where they stood), Mrs. Lovett burst in the door.

"Mr. T! 'Ow could ye let 'im get away? 'E would have made great p—" she broke off suddenly, staring at his guests. "'Ey, now, whassall this abou'?"

Mr. Todd gave an ironic bow. "This, my dear Mrs. Lovett," he said, taking the baker by the elbow, "is Mrs. Bates, and this is Mrs. Greely. They have, most condescendingly, invited me to a ball in the name of Mrs. Isabella Woodward. Surely," he added, catching her eye, "you recall the charming Mrs. Woodward?"

Mrs. Lovett suppressed a snort. "O'course," she muttered. "I'll just—"

"And this, dear ladies," continued Mr. Todd. He was having a grand time. "This is the indomitable Mrs. Nellie—it is Nellie, dear?—Lovett." He had not spoken so much, or so enthusiastically, since Australia.

"Of course," uttered Mrs. Greely. "Best pies in London, correct?"

"So they say," asserted Mrs. Lovett. She sent the two women a cold glance, and possessively placed a hand on Mr. Todd's grasp on her elbow. An uncomfortable silence ensued.

"Well, now," broke in Mrs. Bates. She seemed to have regained her composure. "We must be getting back to the Ball, now. Shall you escort us, Mr. Todd?"

The barber was taken aback. "Well," he stammered. "I suppose so." He picked up his coat and opened the door. Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Greely passed through, sending him courteous smirks.

As Mr. Todd slipped on his coat, Mrs. Lovett decided she ought to raise her voice. "Mr. T," she cried, taking a hold of his shoulder. He fixed her with an icy look.

"It doesn't matter," she muttered, lowering her eyes from his gaze. "Manners 'n all, it doesn't matter. You don' 'ave to go wi' them. We'll be gone soon, an' you don' 'ave to worry abou' tha' rubbish."

She looked back up to him, and saw that, miraculously, his expression had softened slightly.

"Mrs. Lovett," he murmured, taking her hand off his shoulder. "I can fend for myself in a ball. I don't need your protection." He gave her hand a little squeeze, and turned to the door. "I must be going with them."

As he stepped outside the shop and hurried down the stairs after Mrs. Greely and Mrs. Bates, he realized why he felt so strange. The cold night air must have sharpened his dulled senses and reawaken a soberer self. Escorting a woman (or women) home was the sort of polite, gentlemanly thing that Benjamin Barker would have done. He wondered why Sweeney Todd was doing it, since he had nothing to gain.

* * *

Toby clutched the bag of sandwiches to his chest as he pushed open the door. The pie shop was empty and dark, since night had set and no candle lit. He strained his eyes, peering for Mrs. Lovett and praying he would not find Mr. Todd instead.

"Ma'am?" he called out. A worn voice answered, "I'm in the parlor, Toby."

Nonplussed, Toby trotted to the parlor, sandwiches in hand. Mrs. Lovett sat, splayed in the chair Mr. Todd had occupied half an hour ago. Her eyes had a red, worn look, and she hurriedly wiped her face as Toby entered the room.

"I bought dinner," Toby said simply, holding up the bag. Mrs. Lovett gave a strained smile.

"Tha's lovely, darlin'" she murmured, holding her hand out for the bag. She peered at the sandwiches. "Cheese, love?"

"'S all we could afford, ma'am," he replied. "Meat was four pence each."

Mrs. Lovett gaped at him, then shook her head sadly. "Time's is hard, love," she sighed. Creakily, she rose from her chair and trudged to the kitchen. "Shall we split the third sandwich, love, or save it for Mr. T?"

Toby looked at her curiously. Did she think of anyone else? "Let's hold it for him. Where is he?"

"Out at some ball. These 'igh pussycats came by an' dragged 'im off." The baker handed a sandwich to Toby, and sat at a stool. Warily, she poked the Cheshire cheese. "'E won't be back for a while, love."

"He left you all alone?" Toby asked incredulously. He suddenly felt very glad that he had hurried home.

"Ah, don' worry," she smiled, ruffling his hair. "You an' me, we can hold down the house, can' we?"

* * *

Benjamin Barker, while well-off, could hardly have been considered upper-class. He and Lucy had saved for the finer things in life, like his razors, and had not spent much time prancing about with gentlemen and lawyers.

He had, however, danced.

It was mostly because of Lucy, he decided. She had loved dancing as a girl, and had insisted that Benjamin learn to dance as well. They did not go to balls often, but had been to dances at Lucy's grandparents' home in the country, as well as a few city soirees here and there. For all these happy memories and familiar pleasures, Benjamin Barker had become a master of the waltz, the quadrille, and a few others.

Perhaps Sweeney Todd retained this knowledge. The two women frog-marching him into the ballroom near Sotheby's obviously thought so. They had not seen the way Mr. Todd had spun Mrs. Lovett around her shop, but they must have had faith in him. Then again, he was (quite literally) the last man left.

A feathery pink cloud descended upon Mr. Todd. Underneath the ruffles, he thought he could discern the infamous Mrs. Woodward. She obviously had shed her dark widow's garb in favor of something a bit more festive.

"Mr. Todd!" she exclaimed, sweeping a deep curtsey. The barber responded with a small bow. "How titillating to see you again. Welcome to Rutherford Hall."

She took his hand and guided him into the crowd. The strangest thing about this ball was the decided lack of dancing. Several dozen women stood about, gathered in little clumps, and whispering. They all seemed to be watching him as he was shunted towards the back of the room.

"Ah, but what a hostess I am being! Certainly, let me fetch you a drink." Mrs. Woodward smiled at Mr. Todd, gave him a rather alarming wink, and hurried to a counter with several bottles on it. Mr. Todd sighed, and leaned on the fireplace. Above the mantle, a large-sized representation of J. Rutherford glowered down. He seemed out of place at this ladies' society.

"You and me both, sir," sighed Mr. Todd. When would she get back with that drink?

* * *

Poor, drunk Mr. T. He and his alcoholic beverages make quite a mess.

Anyway, I'm glad I got a positive reaction from the Sweenett! Trust me, more shall follow.

Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews!

This chapter's focus has changed a bit from the historical/practical aspect. It will come back up later, but right now I really wanted to focus on insanity. Why? Because I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, savvy?

Anyway, parts of this chapter refer to religion. This is because in the original play, the Judge was a religious zealot of sorts who did all sorts of masochistic things. Keep that in mind, loves.

* * *

_Chapter Six: A Dark and Vengeful God_

"So, how long have you lived in this city?"

Mr. Todd tipped the champagne back, and then turned to his hostess. She seemed to be cross-examining him in front of a jury of _her _peers—that is, if a fluttery flock of eager women could be considered as much. Mrs. Woodward's version of conversation seemed strange, indeed—polite exchanges had transformed into the in-depth prodding of Mr. Todd's family and background. Never had he met a woman so inquisitive—well, perhaps not "_never"_. Come to think of it, he had met another one quite recently…

"I've lived in London all my life," he responded. The women around him sighed sycophantically, either ignorant or forgiving of Mr. Todd's lethargy.

"Really?" one confident starlet piped up. "I have always lived on Fleet Street, and I have never seen you! Not until a year ago, anyway."

"Ah," he cut off her statement. "Yes. Well, I've been away on an extended holiday… as business."

He tactfully chose to leave out the exact location of his "holiday."

"Have you ever been married, Mr. Todd?" asked one woman.

Mr. Todd froze. How dare she ask such an impertinent question? He spun around, eyes searching for the source of this uncalled-for memory.

The look on his face caused the entire ballroom to fall silent. Even the lone piano player in the corner, the party's only music, stopped and stared at the wild-looking man before them.

"How… dare you," he growled, "ask about my Lucy."

A moment or two passed. Mrs. Woodward decided this would be the opportune moment.

"Come now," she called brightly, with a clap of the hands. "Let's have that music again."

The woman on the pianoforte suddenly returned to her business, as did everyone else in the room.

"Care to dance, Mr. Todd?" Mrs. Woodward asked suggestively. With a sigh, Mr. Todd offered his arm, and the two of them walked to the center of the ballroom.

The pianoforte emitted a rather bouncy waltz. The music seemed so out of place in Mr. Todd's grim mind that he nearly laughed. Still, his eyes held a rather manic glint.

At this moment, Mrs. Woodward began to wonder if her dancing partner was slightly mad.

The tempo picked up even more. _One-two-three, one-two-three,_ chanted Mr. Todd. He was a smallish man, light on his feet, and could gracefully glide with even the least poised of women. A twirl, a spin, a pause, a break, another twirl, and they had lost themselves, lost each other, in the dance; waltzing became living as dance became breath, and they were locked in battle, grappling to the death, stepping and whirling and the flames licking up from the fireplace cast an eerie light in his eyes and the spark as his razor flicked from his belt and found its place on her throat.

* * *

Mrs. Lovett drew the curtains, shutting out the cold moonlight and closing in the warm candle light. Shadows cast their elongated forms across the table, and quiescence settled in (as much as it could, at any rate) the pie shop. With a nod towards Toby, she went to the parlor to stoke the fire.

Toby snoozed, half-in-half-out of sleep, at a table. Vaguely, he heard a door scrape open.

"Alms, alms?" croaked a voice. "For a miserable woman?"

Panting and scuffling drew nearer to the drowsy boy. He lifted one eyelid to see what was going on, and drew back in disgust.

"What are you doin' here?" he cried. The beggar woman simply grinned and pointed to his hair.

"I's doin' what's you's doin, laddie," she cackled. Her eyes did not quite seem to match up; her expression signified extreme madness. "Got a bite for hungry old woman, ey?" Her eyes shone with crazed desperation.

"Toby!" exclaimed Mrs. Lovett, hurrying into the pie shop. "What are ye doin' wi' tha' mad ol' woman?" The baker grabbed the beggar's arm and flung her towards the door.

"Stop, ma'am!" cried Toby. Mrs. Lovett stared at him.

"Now, Toby," she said in her most practical voice. "We can't 'ave this rubbish kickin' around my shop."

"But look at her," Toby murmured. "She's 'ungry. And Mr. Todd—'e never eats, just give 'er the sandwich."

Mrs. Lovett sighed. The boy was such a simple thing, she thought. Of course he cared about strangers. She considered tossing the beggar woman out anyway, and cuffing Toby on the head. But why not humor him?

"All righ' then," she grumbled. She held the beggar woman's arm again and placed her, none too gently, into the seat across from Toby. "Eat up, dearie," she said, and handed the third sandwich to the beggar woman.

Mrs. Lovett sighed, but smiled a bit at the ecstatic look on Toby's face. "Really, darlin'," she said lightly, "'ad I known a bit o' charity woulda made ye so 'appy, I woulda done it long ago."

"Ah, s'not just that, ma'am," he said. "I just know tha' the good Lord sent you to us."

A troubled look passed across Mrs. Lovett's face. For the first time, Toby wondered if his baker was slightly mad.

* * *

It was not that much blood, Mr. Todd reasoned, but from the way Mrs. Woodward screamed, you would have thought he was hacking her head off with a serrated spoon. A scarlet stream graced the silver blade, a sharp contrast glowing in the firelight.

Only Mr. Todd could appreciate such beauty, though, and only for a moment. When Mrs. Woodward first screamed, he wrenched the razor back. He had brought it up instinctively at first, as he had with Mrs. Lovett. The baker, he realized now, was a far more sinewy spirit than poor Isabella Woodward. A woman with such a delicate constitution (if not so delicate a frame) could not take Mr. Todd's treatment. All the better, he decided, for the both of them—he had absolutely no plans to succumb to Mrs. Woodward's advances, and she would certainly not advance any further, for fear of getting cut.

The widow's screams caused all others at the party to gasp and pull away. A clearing formed around Mr. Todd, who found himself (not for the first time that evening) at the center of attention. Mrs. Woodward staggered away, her handkerchief placed at the small cut on her neck. The music had stopped, but the ringing in Mr. Todd's ears continued.

"If I may now take my leave," the barber snarled. His bloody razor whisked through the air, causing everyone to take another step back. He looked truly disturbed now. The red around his widened eyes seemed more prominent than ever. With four loping steps, he made his way towards the door, only to find a woman standing bravely in his way. She glared bravely at him.

He raised his razor once more to the sky, prepared to bring it down upon the woman's innocent neck—and found himself looking into Lucy's frightened eyes. He exhaled, knowing how impossible this was, and yet how very true. Sweeney Todd might have been able to kill a woman at his peak, but now…

He lowered his razor, and looked up. All the terrified eyes (_Lucy's eyes, Johanna's eyes_) before him beseeched him with unspoken prayers. This slave to a darker god than theirs worked only by his own powers, and could not be moved. Or could he?

Mr. Todd pocketed his razor. He had had enough of this place. He wrenched open the door and left.

_Damn ghosts_, his mind thundered. _These visions of my Lucy… Lucy, why do you haunt me?_

He whipped around a corner, and stopped short. Before him, the Judge's old house sat, boarded and packed. No one lived there now, save the phantoms and shadows. It, like the barbershop, was a haunted place. Images of Lucy in the ballroom, of Johanna in the window, of the Judge in his study plagued Mr. Todd's inner eye.

Though the street was empty, Mr. Todd felt crowded. The dead surrounded him, the dead men of London—the gentlemen, the students, the tourists, the bankers. All peered at him through calculating eyes, having died at his hands.

_Only nightmares,_ taunted a voice in his head. He spun around, and Johanna stared dolefully back at him. _The ghosts… they never die…_

"_No,_" he croaked. "Never again."

_Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…_

"You've got that right," snarled Mr. Todd at the phantom Judge.

* * *

She had been a quiet girl, back when she was a little slip of a thing, but now Mrs. Lovett could talk the ear off anyone. Even when the only company was a sleepy little boy and the deranged wife of her darling tenant, she could chatter away. It was how she kept her head together, she figured. Otherwise, she would fall apart completely.

"—an' tha', ya see, is why I never buy my linens from Mrs. Redlon anymore," Mrs. Lovett finished. Generally, however, her stories never ended, but transformed into long, rambling epics, only stopping when interrupted or her audience left. This time, it was the former. Mostly.

Mr. Todd stood outside the pie shop door, silhouetted by a street lamp and the moon. Panic rose in Mrs. Lovett's chest. She glanced at the beggar woman, who had sated her hunger and now peacefully snoozed across from an equally conscious Toby. Across the room, the handle on the locked door jiggled.

"Mrs. Lovett! In the name of God, open this door!" he cried. The baker frantically shook the beggar woman awake.

"Coming, Mr. T," she sang, dragging a somnolent Lucy to her feet.

She hurried to the door, then turned around and wrenched the beggar's hat so it hit her eyes. She dashed back to the door and unlocked it.

"Mr. T!" she cried. "Ye're home early, love. Is everythin' all righ'?"

"I need a drink," he growled, holding his hand to his head. "The night's been dreadful to me."

He crossed to the counter and picked up the alcohol. Just before the gin touched his tongue, Mr. Todd froze and pointed to the baker's visitor. "What is that doing here," he asked, dumbfounded.

"Oh, tha'," Mrs. Lovett said, snatching the beggar's wrist as Lucy readjusted her hat. "Poor thing was wanderin' the streets, hungry an' all. Thought I'd be the charitable sort."

Mr. Todd nodded, and returned to his drink. The beggar woman would not be so easily satisfied, however.

"That's the barber," she murmured. "Always consorting with the devil's wife."

"Now, now," muttered Mrs. Lovett, tugging the beggar towards the street.

"Hey, mister," the beggar said suddenly. She had raised her hat just enough and peered into the barber's eyes. "Do I know you?"

Mr. Todd raised his eyebrows. "I'm quite sure, no."

Mrs. Lovett dug her heels into the floor. "And now we're going," she groaned, dragging the beggar out the door.

Mr. Todd swirled his gin around in the bottle, and looked up as Mrs. Lovett locked the door. "All these women after ye, Mr. T. An' none of them won ye over?"

He shook his head. "None of them were right. Lucy was the only one I…"

_Lucy_.

Mr. Todd froze, staring intently at Mrs. Lovett.

* * *

Some crazy things are happening, eh? Well, tell me what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note:

Okay, I'm not a hundred percent sure as to what I think of this chapter. Tell me if it's too abrupt, or something. It _will_ go somewhere, I swear. Girl Scout honor.

* * *

_Chapter Seven: Better You Should Think She Was Dead_

Mr. Todd dashed down the shadowy labyrinth of London, searching desperately. He knew that the beggar woman often lurked around Bell Yard; perhaps he would check there…

He rounded a corner, and (to his relief) heard a faint voice echo:

"_Hey, hoy, sailor boy…_"

Mr. Todd had to shake off the revulsion; his wife was a prostitute. That did not matter now, though—nothing mattered. He just had to look into her eyes and find the woman he loved.

"'_Don't I know you,' she said." His voice was so cold; Mrs. Lovett could have sworn ice frosted on the windowpanes. "You knew she was alive."_

_"I was only thinking of you," she whispered._

_"You lied to me," he said. He stood up straight now, his gaze bitter. "I don't have time for this, woman—I'll deal with you later."_

_He pushed past her, out the door and into the cold night. He could not bring himself to look back at her, to touch her (even if just to shake her, to kill her). He had one goal right now: find Lucy._

"Lucy," he whispered, with a tap on her shoulder. She turned her frightened, mad gaze upon her husband.

"What's the barber doin' in this stench?" she cackled. Her hands found their way to his shirt, twisting down to his trousers.

"It's me," he whispered. His eyes, filled with tenderness, pleaded for some form of recognition. He bared his soul to her—not entirely, he amended, as he pulled her prying hands away from him. "It's Benjamin, your Benjamin."

The beggar shrank away from the touch on her shoulders, the firm yet gentle hands. So alien, this touch. And yet, so familiar.

"Benjamin?" she murmured. "I don't know a Benjamin…"

"Your husband," he insisted. "Johanna's father. Benjamin Barker."

"Benjamin Barker," she repeated, with a strange tremble. "_Sentenced to a lifetime of servitude in Australia…_"

Mr. Todd nodded furiously. "Oh, my Lucy," he whispered. These hands, so beaten by the years and hardships, writhed in his strong ones. He placed a shy kiss on her fingers.

"Come home, my love, come with me."

"Home?" she hissed, pulling her fingers away. "Not home, 'tis haunted."

He shook his head. What should he do? What _could_ he do? He knew he had to bring Lucy home, whether by coaxing her or tossing her over his shoulder, kicking and screaming. He was about to do one or the other when his wife (his beautiful, sick wife) interrupted his train of thought.

"I'm so thirsty, Benjamin," she mumbled. She wrenched himself from his grasp and tottered down the street. Mr. Todd followed her, nonplussed.

The beggar woman stopped at a pump on the corner of the street. She cupped her hands, and looked beseechingly at Mr. Todd. "Help me," she moaned.

He stepped to the pump and grabbed the lever. The water came out slowly, since the cold air had frozen some pipes. He had to strain to get just a bit of dirty water out of the nozzle. Never mind the quality of the water—she drank it greedily.

"More," she croaked. Mr. Todd tried again; more and more water poured forth, but none seemed to slake her thirst. Finally, his arm gave out, and he decided to try a different tactic.

"Come here, my love," he said. "I know a place with more water."

She nodded, and sleepily rubbed her eyes. For the first time, Mr. Todd saw the wrinkles on her face. Life had been hard on her, aging her early, but these last six months must have nearly killed her, with less money for the kind stranger to spare and less welfare for the poor.

All because of him…

Gently, he picked up his wife, just as he had on their wedding night. She was so light—like a child, or a wizened old woman. He held her close, and hurried towards the barbershop.

Toby had woken to the sound of quiet sobs. _Not for the first time_, he thought sadly. On shaky, tired legs, Toby rose and approached the sound of tears.

* * *

As he had suspected, Mrs. Lovett sat in the parlor. She was not one to cry (or so she said) but she could not hold back tears this time. It was all too much—when Mr. Todd returned, he might kill her. He certainly would never speak to her again. All for her foolish love and her foolish greed, she had ruined any chance of ever getting what she wanted.

"Ma'am?" said Toby. He felt silly, as if he always was walking in on her at times like this, trying to offer his own meager comfort. This comfort would not do, he knew. What Mrs. Lovett needed was a man, a real man, not a boy or a demon.

"M'sorry you have to see me like this, love," she snuffled. Her gloved hand pawed at her tear-stained cheek.

"It's all right," the boy said. He felt rather unsure about what he should do next.

She opened her arms, and Toby gratefully fell into her embrace. The hot tears in his hair barely bothered him. Eventually, they stopped altogether.

"Toby, darlin'," she murmured at last. "Y'know, we can't stay 'ere forever. Mr. Todd'll kill me, and ye once I'm gone."

"Will we go to the sea, ma'am?" he asked, trying to bring her happy fantasy back to her.

Another tear dripped down her cheek. "Yes," she finally said. "I s'pose we will, love."

Distantly, another lifetime away, the sounds of footsteps heavy on the stairs interrupted their peace. Mrs. Lovett clutched Toby tightly to her, and whispered, "We'll lock the doors. If he gets too angry, then he can't hurt us anyway." She rose, and quickly latched the rickety doors to the pie shop.

"There, now," she said, returning to the parlor. "Nothin's gonna harm us, darlin'."

Her reassurances fell upon sleeping ears, however. With a sad smile, Mrs. Lovett kissed the boy's forehead and blew out the lamp. Finally, she thought, heading up to her sparse bedroom, she could sleep.

* * *

Mr. Todd tenderly tucked his wife into bed. She looked, even in her madness, so peaceful. _Such quiescence will do her good_, he thought.

He sat on the floor, holding her hand, throughout the night.

At some point, he must have fallen asleep, his forehead touching the mattress. He woefully opened his eyes and stared at the beggar woman with some confusion, before the memories of last night came crashing down upon him.

So serene, he thought contentedly. And that is when he caught whiff of the smell.

Of course, Mr. Todd was used to unpleasant stenches. He did, after all, live above Mrs. Lovett's Pie Shop. But this was truly unhealthy, the smell coming off his poor Lucy. Cautiously, Mr. Todd lifted his wife to reposition her, when he froze. The source of the scent became quite clear.

He cleaned her up as well as he could, but knew that it would hardly suffice. _She cannot be sick,_ he thought, _not when I've just found her_.

* * *

Mrs. Lovett woke that morning to the sound of frantic knocking on her shop door. Still shaking off the last dregs of sleep, she wrapped in her housecoat and plodded, yawning, to the front door.

As she suspected, Mr. Todd glared from the other side of the window.

His appearance, however, surprised Mrs. Lovett. He looked even more tired than usual, and actually—worried? Concerned? Sad? She couldn't quite put her finger on it.

Reluctantly, Mrs. Lovett cracked the door open. Mr. Todd (she had never seen him in such a state!) said, "Please, Mr. Lovett, it's Lucy."

"An' wha's Lucy?" she asked, baffled.

"She's not well," he said simply.

Begrudgingly, Mrs. Lovett followed the barber up the stairs to his apartment. Indeed, when she opened the door, the smell overtook her. The poor old beggar woman lying on the bed looked pitiful, surely enough.

Mrs. Lovett cautiously examined the torpid woman. Her frame had shrunk down, as if she had lost fluid. The baker clucked, and said at last, "Oh, Mr. Todd, I dunno 'ow I can tell ye this."

"What?" he growled.

Mrs. Lovett looked up, fear in her eyes.

* * *

Oh, no, more suspense! I don't think I can take it!


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Okay, things are beginning to get a bit crazy in this chapter. Please, tell me what you think! I seriously want to know how this affects your perceptions of the story.

Also, the facts here are all researched. So they should be pretty accurate. :)

* * *

_Chapter Eight: Lies in Ashes_

Even when the world seemed bearing down upon her, the proper Victorian lady would not let fear show. Of course, the ideal of true womanhood dictated that a woman must be demure and delicate, but never terrified. It simply did not do, as many said, and the woman, as a general of the household, must not show such fear.

Nevertheless, Mrs. Lovett had never been so afraid in her life.

Mr. Todd did not make matters better, either, when he strode across the room and grabbed the baker by the shoulders.

"Tell me," he whispered, searching her eyes.

"She 'as cholera," Mrs. Lovett stammered.

A very pregnant silence fell over the room. Mr. Todd's hands fell to his sides. Helpless, he gazed at his fragile wife's deathlike form, and wondered if she would ever rise again. Certainly, Lucy's weak legs could not support her now. He felt, to his surprise, no anger or desire for vengeance. He felt no grief or despair. He only felt pathetic.

As if from another universe, Mr. Todd heard Mrs. Lovett's voice.

"It musta been water… lots o' people 'ave been ill 'cause of the water. I bet tha' she—Lucy, poor thing—drank the poorest an' scummiest water ou' there."

"If she dies," Mr. Todd said, slowly and deliberately. "If my angel dies, it will be all my fault."

"No, I—wha'?" asked a bewildered Mrs. Lovett.

Mr. Todd knelt by his wife's side. "_'I'm so thirsty, Benjamin_,'" he murmured softly. "I'll help you, my love."

He rose, quickly. "But I need help, to save my wife," he growled. "And you, Mrs. Lovett, have a debt to pay to me."

The poor widow nodded furiously. "O'course, Mr. T," she said quickly. "I think I know 'ow to treat it."

Mr. Todd nodded, and Mrs. Lovett said she would go get water—much drinking water—while he cleaned Lucy's sheets. As she stepped outside the barbershop, Mr. Todd would swear that a faint voice from behind him said, "I'd do anything to 'elp ye, love."

* * *

She spent the whole day cleaning up after Lucy, while Mr. Todd tenderly forced his wife to drink water. This was, in Mrs. Lovett's opinion, hellish, but what else could she do? Of course, she could leave, since Mr. Todd would most likely kill her, and yet…

Something prevented her from just walking out the door. Call it love (that's what Mrs. Lovett did, anyway), call it duty (that's probably what Mr. Todd called it), call it what you like, but that something was relentless, and Mrs. Lovett did not have the willpower to fight it further. So, until something better came along, she would have to stay.

The sheets were filthy, and Mrs. Lovett could not keep cleaning them all day. In an attempt to get some fresh air, she muttered something about "runnin' ou' t'buy towels," and fled at noon, leaving the barber and his wife to themselves. After Mr. Todd had gently fed his wife some broth, at about one in the afternoon, he looked out the window and saw something strange.

There was a man outside.

Several, to be more precise, and they were moving furniture into the house across the street.

Bewildered, Mr. Todd peered out the window, carefully watching the men. As he stood there, Mrs. Lovett returned, shivering from the cold wind.

"There, now, Mr. T, 'ere's the towels," she said breathlessly, and handed him the bundle. He took it, but looked at her with a question in his eyes.

"Mrs. Lovett," he said. "Care to explain what's happening outside?"

She stepped to the window and looked down into the street. "Ah," she said, smiling. "I saw a few new families when I was a' the market. London's rebuildin' isself."

Mr. Todd looked at her again, a look that clearly said _Explain yourself_.

She sighed. "Abou' ten years ago, there was an epidemic. Thousands o'people died, the children and old mostly. All those children…it took a while to recover from tha'. But we got along."

She looked at Mr. Todd. Sometimes, the barber really needed things explained to him.

"Tha's the thing abou' great cities, Mr. Todd. They rebuild themselves. It don' really matter what 'appens, but they get along. London's one of those great cities."

She glanced at the barber, who cautiously met her eye. For a while, they simply watched their new neighbors move in. Finally (and very softly) Mr. Todd said, "Come now. Lucy needs our attention."

* * *

By nightfall, Lucy was not looking well. She had shrunk to nearly half her original size (or so it seemed) and looked so wizened and frail, Mr. Todd could barely recognize her. Although they had tried to keep her constantly hydrated, the water did not seem to be enough. Furthermore, Mrs. Lovett had boiled more towels than she thought she could handle.

"Mr. T," she finally said, as dark set in around them. "It's not safe 'ere anymore. Not for you, or me, or even Toby."

"Well," he grumbled. "What do you suggest we do?"

Mrs. Lovett tried a different tactic. "Ye've done the best ye could, love," she murmured, putting her hand on his shoulder. He quickly brushed it off. "It's time to let go."

"No," he growled. "Not yet."

He knew he had lost, though. Mr. Todd just needed to be alone with his wife, to say what needed to be said.

"Leave, Mrs. Lovett," he said at last. She looked at him solemnly.

"You must leave," he insisted. "Pack your things, bring the boy if you like, and get out of here."

"Mr. T!" she gasped. "Ye're kickin' me outta me own 'ouse?"

"Only for now, woman," he growled, grabbing her arm. "Get out!"

The last word was a scream. He knew what would happen to the damn woman if she stayed around for too long. He would kill her—he rather wanted to kill her now, anyway. But she could be spared for now, he reasoned as he wrenched open the door and tossed his baker out to the landing.

* * *

For the first time in her life, Mrs. Lovett felt unbridled anger at Mr. Todd. She wanted to march right back into that barbershop and wring his pale neck. She wanted to smack him, and pull out his hair, and bite his hand when he tried to threaten her again, and then maybe kiss him. No! She did _not_ want to kiss him…not now. He had taken advantage of her for the last time.

And how would she fight back? She would comply—and leave.

Toby glanced up from the pot of boiling towels as Mrs. Lovett stomped into the pie shop. "Is there anythin' else I can do, ma'am?" he asked.

She strode over to the stove and violently quenched the oven with water from the pot. "'Nuff o'that, love," she said firmly. "Pack up ye're things—we're leavin'."

"Leavin'?" he exclaimed. "Bu' where on earth'll we be goin'?"

Mrs. Lovett shook her head. "I'm not sure, love. I jus' know we have t'get outta here."

She hurried upstairs and dug up the old carpetbag, once belonging to Albert. He had given it to her as a wedding present, with the promise that she ought never feel too inclined to use it. Now, however, she needed it to run away from a different man.

She put some clothes in the bag, a few heirlooms and valuables, and her entire cash stash. Conveniently, they fit quite well, and Mrs. Lovett quickly latched the bag shut. She had little time to waste, so she slipped on her coat and hat, picked up the bag, and hurried down the stairs.

Downstairs, Toby had packed up his few pieces of clothing, and pulled on his thin cap. He also had pulled out a moth-eaten jacket several times too large for the skinny boy.

"Ma-am?" he asked, holding up the coat. "Is it all righ' if I use this coat?"

"Oh!" she said. "Of course ye migh'." She smiled, and turned to put out the lamps. "It was my Albert's, love," she continued, "and it'll be far too big for ye." She poked the coals in the fireplace, and chose to leave them be.

Reluctantly, she turned towards Toby. "I s'pose tha's it, then," she said. "We'd best be going."

Toby nodded and shrugged on the coat. The two passed through the pie shop, where Mrs. Lovett remembered her cookbooks, and pulled out a stool to climb upon and reach the high cupboards where she stored her recipes. She tucked them into her bag, and turned towards Toby. The boy held the door open for her as she passed.

This was it. They stood outside the pie shop, and Mrs. Lovett took one last look at her home for over sixteen years. With a glance towards the barbershop, she finally turned away and took Toby's hand. Neither she nor the boy knew when they could return, or what would happen next. All they could do was face forward and proceed.

* * *

No, it's not the end! More is to come, trust me.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Okay, sorry about the wait... I was a little hesitant uploading this one because of the reaction from the last! Parts of this may seem a little odd... I'm trying hard not to be clichè... so there.

* * *

_Chapter Nine: Charity Towards the World_

The Convent of Mercy in Bermondsey had never been fuller. It seemed that, recently, more and more poor widows wandered the streets of London, only to find their ways to the Convent and sanctuary with the Mother Superior, Sister Mary Michael Buxton. Fortunately for the women housed in the convent, Sister Mary Michael was a dedicated woman, as devoted to good works as Mother Catherine McAuley herself.

She and other sisters under her jurisdiction had founded the convent several years back, to follow the "call to charity and works of Mercy" started in Dublin. Thus far, the convent proved to be a successful venture, and would later (unbeknownst to Sister Mary Michael) encourage spread to all of England, Australia, and even America—long after Catherine McAuley's death. But, of course, one could expect as much.

Naturally, the Mother Superior of Bermondsey was pleased with herself. After all, how could one not be? It was her duty, however, to offer every woman in need a "comfortable cup of tea." This would not have been such a problem if things were not a little out of hand.

Perhaps, Sister Mary Michael reasoned, this was a step in the right direction. Certainly, all the destitute widows coming to the convent now felt favorably towards Catholics. Some had even converted to the faith and taken vows. No number of new recruits, however, could stop the endless flow of people, in and out. Furthermore, food, clothes, and blankets had all gone up in cost.

So, when Sister Mary Michael opened the front door at sunrise that one morning to find a tousled-looking woman and her scrawny son, she had half a mind to shut the door in their faces.

Fortunately, for the woman and her boy, the more charitable side of the sister won over.

"Oh, my dears," she said, surprised from their appearance. "You must both be so cold! Please, come in and have a cup of tea."

The woman put her arm around the boy's shoulders. "Thank ye, sister. We'd been wanderin' all nigh,'" she said. Sister Mary Michael nodded, having heard very much the same story thousands of times before now.

"How far did you walk? You look as if you have been on the street for miles."

The woman nodded, and gingerly sat down on an upholstered chair in the parlor. The boy sat beside her on the floor, and rested his head on her knee. Somewhere, a woman cried out in sleep, and another coughed. As the woman looked around, she saw that sleeping people were tucked everywhere—on the sofa, by the fireplace, even under the chairs. They all had identical knit blankets wrapped around their shoulders.

"Seems ye got a full 'ouse, sister," the woman observed. The Mother Superior nodded, and waved to a novice to bring a tea tray.

"We've come all the way from Fleet Street," the woman continued, rumpling the boy's hair.

"Fleet Street?" exclaimed the Mother Superior. Her guest was obviously hardier than she looked.

"Tha's righ'," she said. The tea came, and the woman sniffed it before gingerly taking a sip. "Me boy Toby an' I walked the whole nigh,'" she said again, as if shocked by the fact.

"Well, we'll set you up," said Sister Mary Michael. "You must be very tired."

The woman nodded again, and returned to sipping her tea.

The novice returned, with a pen and a sheet of paper. The paper had hundreds of names on it, some scribbled and scratched out, others with check marks beside them.

"I need to know your name, ma'am," the Mother Superior said, pen in hand.

"Nellie Lovett, sister," she murmured. "An' this is Toby."

The sister carefully wrote down the names, and put little check marks beside them. "Well, Mrs. Lovett, you may stay for as long as you need. However, if you have any money, you may be more comfortable if we help you find a home."

Mrs. Lovett nodded. The Mother Superior thought she must not be a woman of many words.

Finally, the sister left. As a novice handed both Toby and Mrs. Lovett blankets, the Mother Superior turned around and said, "Oh, yes, if you have any relatives or friends whom you think might help, please do not hesitate to name them."

Mrs. Lovett thought for a moment, and shook her head. However, as the Mother Superior climbed the staircase, she heard a voice say faintly, "Oh, Mr. Todd, if ye only knew…"

* * *

_Three times_, he thought. _Three times I have lost her._

Lucy was dead by now. Mr. Todd knew he had lost her for the last time. Strangely enough, he had shed all his tears. The grief that weighed so heavily for the last year seemed to have intensified, then disappeared. After all, he had only found his wife was alive two days ago.

The dark night gradually lightened as Mr. Todd cleaned the last blankets and wrapped Lucy from head to toe in a white sheet. Wishing to leave the barbershop, he hurried to Mrs. Lovett's apartments, to clean himself and his clothes.

Perhaps he could not have saved her anyway. As Mr. Todd thought about it, he knew he would never have what he had had. Johanna was married, and Lucy was mad. Her death did not change his state of life, other than giving him more spare time. _But I have had my fill of spare time in prison_, he thought bitterly.

The taste of failure did not fade quickly, however. As Mr. Todd washed his hair and changed into fresh clothes, he still did not feel completely cleansed. He had, in effect, killed his wife again. At least, it felt like he had.

_Perhaps she would have died anyway,_ he thought as he pulled on his boots. The water at the pump may have been polluted for Lord-knows-how-long. Besides, her cholera had started so suddenly—she must have been infected before he found her.

But no number of slit throats, no cups of water, no clean towels could bring her back now.

Mr. Todd rose, fully dressed. He had to give Lucy a proper burial. The church down the street had a graveyard. With his savings, he could probably afford a plot. But one sight, a glow from the parlor he had barely noticed before, distracted him momentarily.

He walked towards the fireplace and warmed his hands by the fire. The apartments could have burned down, but here was a well-groomed fire…_just to keep him warm_. Briefly, Mr. Todd wondered what would have happened if the building had burnt down. Such a risk…a risk only Mrs. Lovett would take. Silly, practical woman.

He pulled on his coat and stepped outside into the cold morning.

* * *

They had hardly been at the Sisters of Mercy shelter a day, and Mrs. Lovett was already sick of it.

All these old nuns had begun to get on her nerves. Mrs. Lovett was hardly a Catholic (hardly an anything, for that matter, and only a member of the Anglican Church for statistical reasons) and had never cared much for female companionship. This may have had something to do with Lucy's constant presence in her life.

As it was, Mrs. Lovett found herself, once again, in the company of women. She did not mind so much those in her position, and she even felt her spirits rise a bit when hearing some of their tragic tales.

"When Raol died," one gray-haired woman, a Mrs. Thomson, said, "I took to the streets. Nearly fell in with a group of _fallen_ women." The other ladies in the room nodded and caught their breaths. "But, needless to say, I found shelter here. Never thought I'd end up with the Catholics." She gave an ironic smile.

A very young woman, so frail that Mrs. Lovett thought she might melt away, piped up. "Me Carl used t'beat me," she said. "I could ne'er get away, 'cause 'e'd always find me. Once, 'e went for an 'aircut, or summit, and I ran off. Ain't 'eard from 'im since." She gave a triumphant grin, and Mrs. Lovett felt her stomach drop.

"What's your story, Nell?" asked one woman. Mrs. Lovett's eyes widened, and she shook her head. "Oh, y'know, more of the same. Beatings and such."

Of course, that wouldn't do, so she decided to extrapolate a bit. "Ol' Albert—'e was good t'me, but 'e died. It's tough for a woman alone." Her audience nodded encouragingly, and she continued. "Then—well, I fell in wi' someone else."

"Did 'e 'urt ye?" the former-Mrs. Carl Something-or-other asked.

"Eh? Oh, 'e ne'er meant any harm." At this point, Toby looked up. He had been reading a paper on one of the parlor chairs, and only began paying attention when Mrs. Lovett began speaking of Mr. Todd.

"Tha's not true, ma'am," he said. She turned to him, her eyes narrowed. But Toby pressed on. "'E used to take tha' razor, an' press it to yer—"

"Enough, Toby," she snapped. The other women stared at a seemingly hostile mother-son encounter, and Mrs. Lovett immediately felt the old guilt illness. She rose, and swept to Toby.

"Love, Mr. T was th' best thing tha' e'er 'appened t' me," she murmured, kneeling beside the boy.

"But 'e _hurt_ you," he whispered, putting careful emphasis.

Sadly, the baker nodded. "Now, wha' 'ave ye found in there?" she asked.

Toby grinned, and held up the paper. "I think I found just the thing," he said.

* * *

"You want a burial plot, you say?" The elderly parishioner peered over his half-moon spectacles. The man in his office today seemed the epitome of mourning—from his sallow, gaunt face to his white-streaked hair. _Just another day at work,_ thought the parishioner.

"For my wife," the man said. "I have the money for a marker, too."

"Very well, then," the parishioner said, devoid of any compassion. Ironic, since one would think a church to be full of sympathy to the mourning. Very few practiced what they preached.

"I want the stone to read this," the man said. He reached towards the paper and ink pen on the parishioner's desk and scrawled out a name, a couple dates, and a cause of death. After placing the pen down, he pulled out several pound-pieces and placed them on the paper.

As the man turned to the door, the parishioner squinted at the paper. "We shall commission this immediately. My sympathy to you and your children, Mr. Barker."

Mr. Todd (for it was he, and simply calling him "the man" for much longer would become puzzling) froze in the door way. "Thanks," he said gruffly, and stormed out.

As Mr. Todd strode back to Fleet Street and his wife's body, he thought back. _Not Barker. Never again Barker._ He shook his head.

Perhaps it was time he gave Sweeney Todd the life he needed. But if Benjamin Barker kept resurfacing, the transformation would become problematic.

Benjamin Barker buried his Lucy that day. With her, he buried himself. The last shovelful of dirt meant the last moment of the life he led before.

_It's Todd now. Sweeney Todd_.

* * *

Eh? Eh.


End file.
